Mirage
by Annalore
Summary: A continuation of Figment. Punk just wants to forget what happened at Hell In A Cell, but John would rather remember. HIAC speculation. Punk/Cena, slash.


_Note_: I was without power from Monday afternoon through Saturday evening, so I haven't actually seen Hell In A Cell yet. This is a speculation on what might have (though I wish did not) happen. The beginning of this was written by candlelight during the blackout, and I wanted to get it finished and posted before I see HIAC.

* * *

There's always something that fails in you. Your tact, your ability to kiss ass and play politics. Your courage. Your principles. Your body, your strength. You never thought you'd live to see the day your heart would fail you, the day you'd flat out give up when you knew you could take more, go longer, work harder.

To some minds, there's no shame in admitting defeat before a superior foe, but you're not sure that's what happened, so shame is what you feel as you lie on the sofa in your bus after the show is over. It's dark and you're alone and it suits your mood just fine.

You're surprised when you hear someone boarding the bus. You had another fight with Kofi backstage. He told you he was going to ride with someone else. He often changes his mind about you, though; he's unfailingly forgiving. For once, you wish he weren't.

He settles in his usual seat as the bus starts moving. You keep your eyes closed and try to go right on ignoring the world. You must fall asleep, because before you know it, the bus is picking up speed as you hit the highway.

"What happened?" you ask ungraciously. "Your ride fall through?"

"Something like that," he says, and your eyes shoot open and you're halfway upright before you can even think of the twinge in your back, because it's not Kofi at all, it's John.

As you stare at him across the narrow aisle, you give serious thought to firing your driver. "What the fuck are you doing on my bus?" you demand, rubbing your side aggrievedly.

He shrugs and gives you a half smile, as if this were an everyday sort of thing, just a friendly surprise. "I wanted to talk to you."

"I should kick you out onto the highway," you growl. You have half a mind to do it, pull over and leave him stranded, but you shudder at the thought of something like that getting back to management, especially now that you don't have the shine of gold to shield you. "Have you ever heard of a fucking phone call?"

"You know, it's funny, I tried that." He pulls out his phone and taps it for emphasis. "It turns out you don't answer when I call."

It's a point you have to concede, John's stupid comedy schtick aside. Of all the people you're trying to avoid, he is first and foremost on the list. Even if you remembered where you chucked your phone, even if you had it turned on, you wouldn't take his call, but you figure that's a privilege you've earned.

"Maybe that should tell you something," you say.

He shrugs again. That's John Cena for you, the perennially cheerful stalker, undissuaded by reality. But now that he's here, you can't help remembering a time when things were better. It's memory that always gets to you, and not just the things you remember that he doesn't. It's moments like this, sitting on your bus or his, whiling away the hours between cities. It's moments just like this that bring you down, brought you down tonight, and you wonder if he realizes what he demands of you just by existing.

"Just-" he says, turning serious. "I know you went out on a limb for me. And I-"

"I don't know where you got that impression," you cut in before he can say anything else.

"You know, I wasn't really sure _what _happened out there, so I ran by the production truck after the show and got ahold of the footage. It said a lot."

You're afraid he has one up on you, because you haven't seen what happened via an impartial eye, don't know what the commentary team said about it. All you know is how it happened for you. In your own mind, there was a choice, the classic what-do-you-value-more choice presented in so many comic books and movies.

On the one hand, your title, which meant everything to you. On the other, John Cena, getting destroyed by Brock Lesnar outside the Cell. And in the middle, you, fighting a battle you might not win, but which wasn't over yet. Two prizes hanging in the balance, and you couldn't save both. In the end, you went down to Ryback because you couldn't stand to have it go on any longer.

"Tell me," you say to him, a full measure of bitterness in your voice. "How did it play to the camera when they gave him my championship?"

"It's not the end of the world, you know?" he says in response. It doesn't escape you that it's half a statement and half a question, and though he sounds sympathetic, it galls you.

"Don't say that to me," you say, anger and shame welling together in your gut. "Don't you fucking say that to me, because I have lost _everything_ I care about."

"You lost the title. That's not everything." He shakes his head, as if he really thinks you're just that shallow.

You sigh and lean back against your seat in defeat. "I've lost so much more than that. You don't even know."

You don't know why you say this to him, because you don't want him to know what he means to you, that he is the sum and total of everything you've lost, both the reason and the result. You don't want him to know how he makes you burn and how he makes you hate yourself. How even after everything, you still sacrifice for him.

"I can tell you one thing you still have," he says finally. "You have my gratitude. For tonight, and for everything."

"But what is everything, John?" you ask. You're like the kid who can't help picking at a scab, inevitably revealing the bleeding wound underneath, creating scars that will be with you for the rest of your life.

You watch as he struggles with a response, tries to decide how far he's willing to go. You may have promised yourself you wouldn't tell him, but that doesn't stop you from passive aggressively wishing he'd figure it out on his own, sometimes.

"Being there for me when I needed you the most," he starts, weighing each word carefully. "You could have let me disappear down the bottom of a bottle, let me lose everything _I _care about, but you didn't." He smiles at you nervously, suddenly blushing and awkward. "And I know... I know that something happened between us..."

You run a hand over your face, massage your temple. "It's okay, John," you say wearily. You can't let him go on, because you can see that every word hurts him and he is still the weakness in you, the thing that you go out of your way to protect.

"I do respect the decisions you've made," he says softly.

You wait for the anger and bitterness to come at the mention of respect at this late date, but it never does. Instead, something settles in you, some hurt you've been carrying is soothed. You wonder if this is really what you've been seeking all along, some small acknowledgement of the pain you've been through. You want so much more from him than you can even admit, but this may be the best you'll ever get, and he's right, it's more than nothing.

"If I'd known all it would take was losing the title..." you say, shaking your head. Like it's just a small thing, and with him sitting across from you, it almost is. Almost.

"Whether you believe it or not, I'm sorry that happened," he tells you earnestly.

Maybe you should believe him, you're not sure. You were friends once, and it was by your choice that you aren't anymore. And this was never about the title, not really. It was never the luster of gold that separated you from him.

"Yeah, me too," you say, lying back down, weariness permeating every part of your body.

But you're not, not really. You don't measure failure in an instant, in a single action on a single night. And even if you're not particularly inclined to think of yourself as noble, there's a price you're willing to pay for love, and a greater one still for love of John.


End file.
